


With Mercy for the Greedy

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Jealousy, M/M, Virginity, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Sam’s thirteen; they call it practice kissing.  Dean’s pretty sure they’re both old enough now to know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Mercy for the Greedy

It starts when Sam’s thirteen; they call it practice kissing. Dean’s pretty sure they’re both old enough now to know better.

They kiss in the backseat of the Impala, hunched together, when John thinks they’re both sleeping; they kiss lazy in the mornings, Dean in front of the bathroom mirror and Sam shoving next to Dean so he can brush his teeth. They kiss late at night, Sam soft and sleepy against Dean’s chest, ghosting kisses across Dean’s cheek. He’s still not totally sure how it started; he’s pretty sure he had noble intentions. They move around so often it’s hard for Sam to get girlfriends, and Dean’s sure as hell not gonna let him go out to bars when he’s thirteen to pick up chicks. And he just thinks—well, Sam’s gotta learn it somewhere, and Dean’s safe, and Sam won’t get his little heart broken when they move again and he has to leave a girl behind.

So yeah, Dean has good intentions when Sam first clambers up to him on the couch and asks mournfully if Dean thinks he’ll ever get a girlfriend. Sam’s a thirteen-year-old kid, shorter than Dean, small and shy and awkward, and Dean loves the kid more than anything in the world but he thinks if Sam ever gets up the courage to ask a girl on a date it’ll be a miracle. He presses soft chaste kisses to Sam’s lips, keeps his tongue out of his baby brother’s mouth, and that’s it.

And then somehow it’s three years later and they’re still having kissing practice but Sam’s shot up like a weed, tall and gangly and still a little awkward, his face has gone angular and sharp, just enough baby fat to keep him strangely vulnerable. His body’s slender and beautiful, skinny hips and flat belly, long legs and long arms and long graceful neck.

And when Sam grins at him and asks to practice it’s not just chaste kisses, anymore; he sets his hands to either side of Dean’s neck and lunges at his mouth, like he’s greedy for it, like it’s something he owns, and Dean knows he doesn’t act any better, shoving his tongue into Sam’s mouth and swallowing Sam’s breaths. He keeps his hands to himself, at least.

He should have known that eventually it’d all go to shit.

They’ve been in the same place for a month when Sam bangs through the door on a Friday afternoon grinning with his face flushed and happy; Dean’s nursing a beer in front of the television, and before he can even ask, Sam says, all in a rush, “I got a date, Dean, I got a date!”

There’s something tight inside his chest. He knew it was coming, knew Sam was too good-looking, too sweet, pretty doe eyes and pretty pink mouth, and eventually the girls were going to realize it just like Dean had. “You have a date,” Dean says, and he hates the way his voice sounds, strange and flat, hates even more the way it makes Sam’s smile falter.

“Yeah, I just,” he says. Dean watches the movement of his throat when he swallows. “A girl at school asked if I wanted to go to the movies tonight, so I. I said yes?”

“You know the first damn thing to do with a girl, Sam?” he asks. He sees Sam ball his hands up into fists.

“I thought that’s what your practice was for,” Sam snaps, angry, his voice pitched tight and high. Dean should let it go, but he can’t. Your practice, Sam said. Like it was all his fucking idea. Like Sam didn’t crawl into Dean’s bed after John went to sleep, pressing sloppy kisses to the side of Dean’s jaw and whispering that he needed to practice. Like he didn’t open his sweet little mouth for Dean’s tongue the second their lips touched.

“Come show me, then,” Dean says. Sam’s eyes go wide, and his mouth gapes open, a little. 

“What?”

“Come show me, Sammy. Come show me what you’d do with a girl.” He pats the space next to him on the couch, watching as Sam cautiously walks forward and sits down gingerly. 

He waits. Sam’s staring at him, not moving, his chest rising and falling a little fast. Dean snorts.

“Not a good start, dude,” he says, and watches as Sam’s jaw firms and he leans forward.

To be fair, if Dean were a girl he’s pretty sure he’d have his panties off the second Sam’s hot little tongue slides shyly into his mouth. Sam’s keeping it polite, his hand brushing over Dean’s shoulder and resting there like he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Well,” Dean says, after a long pause, when Sam breaks it off. Sam’s face goes a deeper red. “You’re a real gentleman, Sammy.”

“Shut up,” Sam hisses, and Dean can’t take his eyes off the faint slick shine of Sam’s lower lip. Sam presses his lips together and stabs one hand through his hair in a jerky angry motion. “God. Just. Shut up, Dean.”

He moves to get up, clearly embarrassed, unhappy, and Dean’s shooting out an arm before he knows what he’s doing, grabbing Sam’s wrist hard, tugging him back down.

“Let me show you,” he grits out, angry all over again at the thin bones in Sam’s wrist, the softness of his skin, at the fact that Sam was gonna let some girl touch him like this, was going to kiss a girl like he just kissed Dean, like none of it meant anything at all. He uses his grip on Sam’s wrist to pull Sam in hard, sharp, and Sam goes off-balance and falls against Dean’s chest but he doesn’t have time to let out more than a startled grunt before Dean’s smashing his mouth down on Sam’s.

It’s nothing like how Dean kisses girls, nothing like how he usually kisses Sam; he pushes his tongue rough into Sam’s mouth and takes it, takes Sam’s mouth like he’s taking his body, like he has a right to, rolling them both over til he’s pressing Sam down deep into the couch. When Dean bites down on his lower lip Sam gasps like he wasn’t expecting it and turns his head to the side, panting hard through his nose. Dean bites down on the corded muscle of his throat and tastes the faint tang of sweat.

“C’mon,” he says, gentle now that his brother’s pliant and still underneath him, now that he knows Sam isn’t gonna leave. “C’mon, up, up,” and he pushes up and leans back til he’s sitting up against the couch’s armrest. Sam bites his lip when he slides onto Dean’s lap, almost demurely, looking down and off to the side. Dean runs his hands up Sam’s sides, a minute tremble under his fingertips. This is farther than they’ve ever gone, can’t pretend it’s a game, anymore. He’s fever-flush and floating. Sam’s here, perched on his lap, a heavy weight against his dick, and Sam’s hard against him. Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, breaths puffing against Dean’s collarbone, and touches him on the waist, tentative, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“Shh,” Dean says, soothing and soft, “it’s okay, sweetheart.”

It’s a such an incredibly stupid thing to say, and he expects Sam to call him on it immediately. Sammy’s not one of his girlfriends, not one of the pretty girls Dean picks up in bars and takes to his car, sliding his hand under their skirts, feeling wet slick heat on his fingers. He and Sam both know that, so he’s surprised, a little, when Sam arches his back with a shocked moan and grinds his hips down in a sharp jerky motion.

“You like that,” he breathes, and Sam flushes red and looks away, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Dean grins and slides his hands up Sam’s shirt, thumbs stroking the skin right underneath Sam’s jeans, and he feels Sam shudder hard, just once. “You want to be my girl, Sammy, huh?”

“No—”

He lets his fingers trip up Sam’s concave little tummy, slow and teasing, the way he does to the girls he fucks in the backseat of the Impala. He’d keep his eyes on Sam’s face, but he can’t stop looking at the pale vulnerable skin of Sam’s stomach and chest as Dean rucks his shirt up, can’t stop staring at Sam’s sharp hipbones and the way Dean can just barely see the hint of his ribs. When he pushes Sam’s shirt up to his armpits and lets the pad of his thumb trail fleeting over Sam’s nipple he gets a pitiable whine for it.

“Wanna be my girl, yeah,” he says, and he’s faintly aware he’s talking nothing but nonsense and bullshit but he can’t help it; his eyes are glued to the delicate pink of Sam’s nipples and he just keeps running his thumbs over them, pinching one of them between his fingernails and barely registering Sam’s helpless little moan. “Want me to eat you out, baby?”

“Oh my fucking God,” Sam gasps, and Dean leans up and takes a pink little nipple between his teeth, worrying at it harder than he should but it’s impossible to stop, impossible to go slower with the way Sam’s hands fly to Dean’s biceps and dig in like he’s trying to stop from touching himself, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands so he’s grabbing at Dean instead. When Dean bites down, softly, Sam makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, a noise like prey, and Dean grabs Sam’s hips and bites down harder, just because.

When he finally leans back Sam’s nipple is dark red and puffy, swollen and distended and Sam cries out when Dean presses a tender little kiss on it.

“Stop,” Sam gasps, and he tries to twist his torso away but Dean follows him, winding his arm around Sam’s back so he can pull Sam’s chest back toward his face, because he’s addicted already to the little noises Sam makes, like he can’t decide if it hurts or feels good but he wants more of it, anyway. “Dean,” and Sam sounds panicky, breathing heavy and frantic, squeezing his hands urgently on Dean’s shoulders as Dean licks hot wet stripes across Sam’s swollen nipple, “Dean, gonna come, Dean, I’m gonna come, you gotta _stop_ —” and that’s when Dean finally registers it, how hard Sam is grinding down against him and how hard Sam is breathing, and when he looks down he can see a wet patch on the front of Sam’s jeans.

He uses his other hand to trace the outline of Sam’s damp cock through the fabric, and when Sam lets out a sobbing breath Dean bites down, hard, on his abused nipple. “Gonna come for me, baby?” he asks, slow and thoughtful and sex-stupid, dazed by Sam’s flushed cheeks and the way he’s panting with his mouth open, lips shiny and slick, tiniest hint of blood on his bottom lip where he must have bitten it. Sam gasps _yeah, yeah Dean,_ and lurches forward, shuddering, when Dean rubs him through his jeans. He grips Sam’s hips and moves Sam around on his lap; Sam goes with it, pliable and submissive, shifting where Dean guides him, so that he’s straddling Dean’s thigh instead of his waist, and Dean thinks just for a second how easy it would be to fuck Sam like this, with Sam so easy, it’d be no trouble at all to just tug Sam’s jeans down past his stupid slender hips, open him up with slick fingers til he’s gasping, til he can’t imagine going for more than a second longer without Dean’s dick in him, til he’s begging for it. He digs his fingers into the sharp wings of Sam’s hips a little harder than he needs to, and Sam whimpers, goes boneless.

He shoves his thigh up til it’s rubbing hard against the length of Sam’s dick, and with his hands on Sam’s hips he moves Sam against him in an awkward kind of rhythm til Sam gets it; he’s embarrassed, face red and eyes averted, but he jerks his hips and rides Dean’s thigh til he’s whining loudly. His movement gets fluid and loose and Dean doesn’t like it, likes it better when Sam’s off-balance and awkward, so he gathers Sam’s slender wrists together in one hand behind Sam’s back and pins them there, against Sam’s lower back. Sam’s hips stutter.

“Babe,” Dean says, low and fond, and Sam shudders. 

Sam rides Dean’s leg like he’s got no shame left, none at all, damp hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, wrists twisting in Dean’s grasp, not like he wants to get free but like he wants to know that he _can’t._

“Please,” he gasps, finally, “oh, f-fuck, please, Dean, I can’t, Dean.” Dean’s free hand is wandering again, up Sam’s chest to play with Sam’s abused swollen nipples because he likes the way it makes Sam beg. He shoves his hips down against Dean’s thigh animal-desperate. “Gotta help me, please, please—”

“Come on,” Dean says, and he hardly recognizes his own voice, gritty and hard. He pinches one of Sam’s nipples hard, too hard, rolls it between his fingertips and says, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

Sam bows his head and hunches forward, shaking, his voice cracking on a high moan, and Dean watches as he soaks the front of his jeans, filthy and wet, _wet like a fucking girl,_ Dean thinks, delirious, and he rubs the hot slickness against Sam’s dick through his pants just to feel his hips jerk.

Sam’s almost not done coming before Dean’s pushing him onto his belly and jerking his jeans down. Sam lets out a startled noise when Dean pushes his dick into the crack of Sam’s ass.

“Wait, wait,” Sam says, a tremor in his voice, but Dean kisses the back of his neck and Sam quiets down, goes limp underneath him. When Dean goes to grab his own dick he realizes, in a weird detached kind of way, that his hands are shaking. Sam lets out the tiniest little sound, barely a breath, when Dean sets the tip of his cock against the tight furled opening of Sam’s ass. The head of his dick’s wet with precome but he knows it’s not enough, not nearly, and he’s not gonna fuck his brother but he can’t help but push against Sam’s hole a few times, just to feel the resistance, just to feel the way his brother’s body barely loosens up for him, just to feel Sam’s ass open up just the littlest bit around the head of his dick.

“God,” Sam gasps, sounding scared and turned-on and like such a little virgin that it makes Dean’s teeth clench, “oh God, you gonna fuck me, Dean, are you gonna,” and his voice breaks off into a whine when Dean presses in just a little more, and his dick’s not even inside Sam but they’re both panting like they’re already fucking. Sam doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, what the fuck he’s even asking for.

Dean jacks himself rough and tight, just like that, Sam’s body clenching hot and virgin-tight around the tip of his dick; it’s over embarrassingly quick, and he comes hot on Sam’s ass as his brother whimpers beneath him.

“Shit,” Dean breathes, and Sam lets out a loud whoosh of air as Dean collapses down onto him, pushing him into the couch cushions. They’re both sweating hard and Dean’s come is leaking down his brother’s thighs and it’s probably going to get gross really soon but he can’t move, and Sam doesn’t seem like he really wants to, either. 

“We got come on the couch,” Sam says. Dean snorts out a laugh. He feels a little hysterical, maybe.

“Yeah, well. You’re like, an hour late for your date. Might wanna give her a call.”

Sam manages to roll onto his back underneath Dean, and they’re pressed together from shoulders to ankles on the narrow little couch, skin sticking to each other, and Sam winces when his chest presses against Dean’s. Dean leans back and looks at Sam’s chest, really looks, and grimaces with sympathy. Doesn’t stop him from reaching down and touching the edge of one purple-red nipple. Sam sucks in a breath. His eyes are liquid bright where they stare up at Dean.

Dean expects him to crack a joke about being late, or something. Expects him to get up off the couch and make an excuse to jump in the shower. But he just lies there quietly, staring up at Dean as Dean smoothes his thumb feather-soft across the abused skin on his chest.

“I don’t regret it,” he says, very slowly. He reaches up and catches Dean’s hand, pulling it off of his chest and twining their fingers together. “I don’t.”

Dean’s mouth is dry. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Sam hooks his hand around the back of Dean’s neck and draws him down, til they’re pressed together again. Sam pushes his thigh through Dean’s legs, slings one arm around Dean’s back, and pushes his face against the muscle of Dean’s shoulder. He mumbles sleepily when Dean kisses the delicate shell of his ear.

“Don’t go on that date,” he whispers into Sam’s ear, just barely loud enough for Sam to hear, and he feels Sam smile against his skin.

“Just waiting for you to ask.”


End file.
